It seemed clear at the close of a lengthy conversation,
In the cool heat of late Spring.
We have long mourned,
The colonial appropriation of the ancient East.

Destined to be housed in museums framed by symmetrical columns,
As far as the eye can see,
A foreign culture stands on display.
Intricate forms, curated by the educated,
Delicate designs, celebrated by those who know their value,
Saved from the result of the benign neglect.

Symbols of power and grace, literally irreplaceable,
Stories lost in translation,
While beauty endures, a festival of culture,
They stand in ironic tribute, to the rugged proximity to history,

We grew angry at their loss, taken by the other.
And now today, the enemy in the mirror, the East robbing the East.
Artifacts no longer strangers in alien soil,
To cultures unknown. Rather,

Stolen by kin,
Orphaned in the vast destruction of humanity,
People are poor, they need a few dollars to live, we justify.
Our heritage, hidden, like gold deposits,
Seized and sold to the highest bidder,
The strangers may have better guarded the past.

Pried from the earth, ancient homes lost,
Hands of greed, and the cost is heavy,
Vestiges of our past drowning our presence,
The legacy of what was home, now irreverent.